


This compulsion will make mad men of us

by Baryshnikov



Series: Where Monsters lie [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Because eating people can be sexy too, Blood, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Erotic cannibalism, Insanity, M/M, Obsession, POV Second Person, Sensual gore, Stream of Consciousness, True Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 18:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17565341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Now you are not alone. He is with you. He willalwaysbe with you.





	This compulsion will make mad men of us

**Author's Note:**

> From Tom's perspective.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for posting another of these, I always think I'm going to stop and then I don't. Moreover, I will also apologise for the length, if (when) I write another I'll try and make it shorter again. 
> 
> Also, also, not medically accurate because despite googling everything I'm useless at anatomy

Now you are not alone. He is with you. He will _always_ be with you. 

You have been planning this moment ever since you first laid eyes on Harry Potter. Dreaming of what it would be like to sink your teeth into his flesh and tear him all to pieces. Dreaming of letting the darkest parts, the parts of you even you do not understand, have free reign. A small bit of you knows you should slice him up ever so slowly, take him apart little by little, savour him and keep him forever, but you can’t bear to do that. Once, maybe. Now though, when he is here, so close to you, looking up at you with those precious eyes, you can’t bear to wait another hour, let alone another day, to have him inside you, to be part of you, to finally make you complete.  
You don’t remember when the holes first appeared inside you, that longing for something you didn’t know the name of but could feel every night. The urge to do something so atrocious that your mind, in all its innocence, would not supply the details. Other little children didn’t have those urges, they didn’t want to wring the necks of little animals or strip their bones of flesh. Other little children were normal. You weren’t. You remember lying in your bed, when you were so young, staring at the ceiling and knowing that something was missing. A piece of you had never really been there and you missed it so much. It only got worse as you got older, and when you tore parts of yourself out, you felt it more than ever. That gnawing pain, that stinging, that insufferable hunger. You remember making teeth marks in your wrist, how you so wanted to fill that void, fill it with anything But you did not like to swallow down yourself. There was no thrill in seeing the imperfections lined with red in your own arms. So, you pushed down that hunger, suppressed that desire, and kept silent about what you really wanted, but there is no reason to be silent anymore. 

Now you are not alone. He is with you. He will _always_ be with you. 

You’re leaning over Harry, pressing him against the mattress, mouth on his neck. Although you are only kissing, you imagine what it would be like to take a bite. The only other person you’ve ever wanted to do this to was Malfoy. He had always been more than willing to hold your bloodied hands, hold them and touch them and kiss them. Licking the red from your white fingers, making you think he was like you. He wasn’t. He just wanted you to push him against the wall when the sun was burning, and bite at his mouth until it was raw. He just wanted to tell you how sick you were; whine it in your ear as if he was dying. He just liked being a tease. Letting you lick at the wounds he had put there himself because Malfoy never understood. Never understood that this wasn’t a fantasy that would never come true, this was what you wanted more than anything in the world. It was what you endured every day and what you dreamed of every night, the hunger, like a dull knife, repeatedly thrust into you, over and over and over again. But Malfoy had thought it was nothing but a game. He was so scared when he found out the truth. When he was lying beneath you, and you just had to bite the base his neck, and just had to smile at him with blood on your teeth. That was when he realised. Finally recognised the monster that was under your skin, threatening to eat you, and him, alive if it could. Malfoy had pushed you away, said he couldn’t do it, and he was right. Malfoy was far too weak for something as special as this. But Harry, Harry is different, Harry _is_ special, inordinately so. You are sure, from the look in his eyes, that he has felt this ache as well. That he too has become sick with longing for something as gorgeous as your mouth swallowing him down. You know it makes you appalling, know it makes you disgusting. That because of it you are repulsive and sickening, a sordid reminder of how low civilisation can stoop. You don’t care. You like to be their monster. To remind them of what must also be inside themselves, though in other people it is buried so deep. Only you are lucky enough to have it lurking just under your skin. Harry has it as well. That thing without a name, flowing under the surface, making his skin so cold and his eyes dark. Making him agree to this. You have a feeling he thinks it is a dream, that none of it is real, that in the morning he will wake up, and nothing will have changed. You smile at his naivety because soon, everything will have changed. 

Now you are not alone. He is with you. He will _always_ be with you. 

You have done this act, an artificial affection, so many times before, and yet still, an infestation grows inside you. The butterflies flap around your stomach, disturbing your organs, you are almost afraid they will find a weakness in you and burst out in a great torrent of black. Or that one will find its way into your throat and you will choke up its tiny body into the hollow at his neck. But you know you only feel sick because you’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. Because soon it will not be butterflies in your stomach, it will be him. Him spread over your tongue, him ground by your molars, him stuck between your teeth.  
You lie on him, mouthing slowly as if it would be enough. These moments are beautiful, just you and him lying in the dark, waiting for a miracle that will never come. He shifts beneath you, his hands are nervous, you can tell as they fumble, scared to take what he wants because that would mean admitting he wants something. Wants to hold you closer, to find out what lies beneath your skin, to see if you can love him. His fingers are cold on your back, trailing up your spine, bumping over the ridges. They slide up your neck and rest on the cervical vertebra, caressing so gently: back and forth and back and forth, each time gliding higher and higher until his fingers are touching your scalp.  
Your mouthing then turns to chewing. Biting into his shoulder as he strokes your hair, pushing your teeth into his flesh until they are stained red, and the blood bubbles to the surface.  
It blooms across the sheets, like the rhododendrons you’ve always liked, forming such a lovely circle, reminding you that life is no more than an infinite loop. You press your teeth deeper and hear him moan. Those fingers wrapping themselves around your hair, holding you closer. Dare you imagine that they don’t want to let you go? That he wants you to stay forever. You almost want him too, almost want him in that normal way, where two people kiss just because they like each other, and lie on the bed late at night comforted by each other’s arms. You _almost_ want that. But that person who he dreams of, it isn’t you. That person is nicer, kinder, they care about him. You don’t, although you do. You aren’t sure of yourself anymore. So, you dig your teeth in deeper and listen to him cry. You want to cry too, show him how much you love him, show him that he is the most important person in the world, show him that there is no one else quite like him, that you would _never_ do this to anyone else.

Now you are not alone. He is with you. He will _always_ be with you. 

You trail your tongue down his neck watching the blood curl like a corn snake. Down his chest, leaving a wet line of broken blood. Down his ribs, knocking your chin against every single one. Down his stomach, hovering over the pulse. You pull him forward to the edge of the mattress. Like a doll, his body is lax, though you can hear his heart and he does not sound calm inside. He doesn’t stop you when you undo his belt, or when you pull his jeans away, he only watches you, intrigued. When you hold his thighs apart and slide down between them, he sits up, resting his weight on his hands behind him, still just watching you. He still believes that this is a dream.  
There is an understanding in his eyes as he looks down and you look up: you might be the one on your knees, but he knows you are still in control, always holding his gaze. The way he looks at you is absolutely intoxicating. Face flushed, a flicker of fear in his eyes, chewing his lip. He is waiting for you. For he knows in his dream he is going to die, knows he is going to be torn apart in the name of love, knows he’s going to leave this world with your name on his lips. Most importantly though, he understands that this is the only way it can be done.  
You smile at him because he deserves to know that he is special, that he is the _only_ one who could ever sate your need, satisfy your craving, satiate your hunger. He is the only one who can dull the ache of your monsters, and that should be a privilege to know. Despite that, you want to chew at his thighs so urgently, have him in your mouth, making in all your dreams come true, but you force yourself to go slow. To run your tongue along the length, taste his innocent thighs, nip at the adolescent softness as if you were a normal lover. But you aren’t a lover, and this isn’t normal. So, you push on, pressing your nails against his hipbones, feeling how he jolts as you twist and the skin breaks. You press harder and his jerks. You have to smile, growing your nails was worth the while just to see him squirm, to hear him make those precious noises. There is something so delicious about them, something carnal and deeply human. A vulnerability you knew was there but didn’t expect to hear. The humanity that seeps from his split skin is beautiful, it trickles down and blossoms on his underwear, staining lines that will never go away. You know then, looking in his eyes, that this will change both of you forever. For when he is gone you will have to find another reason to be alive. You press deeper then, hoping that what you are looking for will come to the surface and reveal itself.  
When you finally scrape your nails over the bone, he is crying. Though there are no tears to mix with the blood that coats your fingers, and oozes into the creases and cracks that litter his body. These are silent sobs, begs to be woken, to free himself from you. He is almost painfully naïve. Perhaps, though, you’re wrong, perhaps he is dying to give himself to you. Dying to die at your hands. You like that, so you ignore him, after all, it wouldn’t take much for you to lean in and work your teeth through his skin. It wouldn’t take much to have him spread open for your mouth. You swallow. The butterflies flapping faster in the void.  
The first tear is the one that sounds the best, filthy and obscene, accompanied by his exquisite whimpers and moans that just make you want to do this more. That is when you realise, none of your dreams and none of your fantasies and none of your expectations, have ever prepared you for the real thing. You could not imagine sounds this horrific, not imagine the way his skin changes colour as you pull it apart, not imagine how satisfying it is to rip him open. For a while, you forget that once you hated him, that a part of you still does, hates what he does to you, hates what he has denied you for so long. You forget all that though because you so desperately want him in your mouth, and for the first time, you are sure that he wants it just as much.  
The first bite tastes so good. The flavour of magic sliding over your tongue and crackling at the back of your throat. Every inch of him is interwoven with blood and magic and dark, dark things. As you swallow him for the first time, you cannot help but follow the movement with your hand, fingers trailing the path, feeling him inside you is overwhelming. You take another mouthful, unable to stop yourself. And then another. And another. And another. And another until blood is spilling from his stomach, sliding down his thighs and dripping onto the floor. It pools on the carpet and makes your knees so sticky. You do not envy who will find him, though you know who you would like it to be. But you are not doing this for them, this is for you, for you and Harry.

Now you are not alone. He is with you. He will _always_ be with you. 

You push him onto his back and lie between his hipbones, staring at the carnage you have created. The holes have been transposed from inside you to outside him. Dark red holes lined with white; they are so beautiful. He is so beautiful. These are your monstrous dreams coming to the surface, and no matter how much you ever wished to deny them, now they will never go away. For this is your purpose. This is why you are still alive, and it feels so good to finally allow it to come out. You cannot help but notice that he is so striking in his helplessness, fingers weak against the sheets, nails scratching; those wonderful desperate noises he makes, appealing to your humanity. You smirk and slide your tongue in deeper, you lost your humanity a long time ago. Now, all that lies within your soul is monsters and an endless darkness that everyone should be afraid of, including him. Though you hope he understands you are not intending to cause him pain, that is just a consequence of what you have to do to him. You hope he understands because you would never want to hurt him. After all, it is not his fault that his body tastes too good. That there is just something so desirable about the meat that tears off his bones if you pull hard enough, about the blood that spurts if you wrench hard enough, about the bones that crack if you press hard enough. Him spread for you, that is all you want, him spread like a banquet. A thing you are allowed to devour, to consume until you and he have consummated this most beautiful courtship.  
As you bury your mouth into his lungs, their flesh tearing off so easily, spongy and sickeningly good, turning to pulp inside your mouth, you feel his hands coming to rest in your hair. If you thought that his body open for you was satisfying, it is nothing compared to his corpse. Though he’s not quite dead yet. His lungs still inflate and deflate and inflate, even as you eat them, and his gorgeous heart is still squeezing blood around his broken body. A part of you wants to stop. To let him live a little longer, let you have this moment again and again. But you can’t. Not when you’re so close to having everything you’ve ever wanted. The void is closing and the butterflies dissolving with every mouthful. You can feel him mixing with you, coalescing and combining, until you are so close, finally becoming one. One body, one soul, one monster.  
He shudders when you abandon his lungs, leaving them to coagulate in the open air, leaving him to feel the final moments of cold oxygen that filters through the holes. His hand is still twisted with your hair as you lick his heart. Feel the tired pulse that is so nearly dead, and yet still clutching on to life. He gives one last beautiful sob when you bite down, when the blood surges into your mouth, overflowing it drips from your lips. You wipe it away, and for a moment, you just stare, mesmerised by the red streak that now sits across your palm. It is so exciting to be covered in him, so you do not eat his heart so quickly. No, you bide your time, dipping your hands into his cooling body, hooking beneath the remains of his lungs, sliding your fingertips over the edges of his spine, feeling everything that normal people don’t get to feel. You wish you could just climb inside his body, stay with him forever, lodged beside his heart. But that is impossible. You have begun something, and now you must end it too. When you swallow his heart, it sticks in your throat, choking you for a second. Then it is sliding down, and he is finally, truly inside you. That is when you know. The alluring journey that guided you to the darkest possibilities of human minds, has come to an end. The delectable pursuit that led you down into the deepest depths of your soul is over, and although Harry is dead, and you have truly become a monster, you know both of you are finally free. 

Now you are not alone. He is with you. He will _always_ be with you.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it bad that I'm a little obsessed with cannibalism?


End file.
